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He’d seen me naked. He didn’t need to see me afraid.
I grabbed a pen from my SUV and decided to prioritize. I circled three key items on each page. Then, using every memory trick I knew, from mnemonics to word association, I tried to cram the info into my poor overloaded brain. I ran through the list over and over, faster and faster. It was like studying for a college final in the ten minutes before the professor passed out the exams.
The slam of the spring-loaded RV door echoed like a gunshot off the house’s two-story stucco front façade. I glanced up and took a moment to admire camera-ready Wilson. Damn, the pair of vintage Wranglers Stephen had him wearing did things to his ass that should be illegal.
One of the sheets of paper slipped from my hand, and I grabbed it frantically. My sudden movement drew Wilson’s attention. He waved and jogged in my direction. Every single fancy finish and special home embellishment I’d memorized floated out of my head when he locked eyes with me.
I was so fucked.
Forget about earning college tuition for Bailey. Today would be a train wreck of epic proportions.
“Shall we?” He offered me his elbow, and I grabbed it like a lifeline.
Shoulder to shoulder, he and I headed inside the house.
I was semi-catatonic. My body was moving, but my brain was a million miles away, flooded with thoughts of imported Japanese wall coverings and custom wrought iron entrance doors. Without Wilson propelling me forward, I’d be stuck in the driveway, drooling over my seven-page list.
There seemed to be twice as many people at the shoot today. More cameras, more mics, more everything. And judging by her yelling, Kate’s temper was on a short fuse. My stress was off the charts and climbing. Sweat pooled under my arms. It was too hot in here for all these damn TV lights. Someone needed to turn on the two-stage, twenty SEER AC unit.
“How are you this afternoon?” Wilson’s question cut through my fog of imported finishes and self-doubt. We stood in the cavernous foyer under what I now knew was a French 19th-century Ormolu chandelier. He and I were an island of calm in a maelstrom of crew and camera people who rushed to finish setting up for the shoot.
Lord help me, I had not the faintest clue how to pronounce Ormolu. We Texans butchered plain old English. I had no business trying out French in front of a TV camera.
“Me, what?” I blinked a few times, my eyes watering from looking directly at the glowing gold and crystal Orm-whatever light fixture above us.
“I asked how you are, but I’m going to go out on a limb and guess not good. What’s up?” A wrinkle of concern marred his forehead, and he put a hand on my lower back, drawing me closer.
“It’s fine. Good actually. I mean, I can handle it.” I waved the list at him, and he took a step back before I smacked him in the face with the wrinkled papers. “Tracie will be here for the next showing.”
“I’m not following.”
My chest strained its denim confines as I exhaled in a failed attempt to compose myself. Before I spoke, I tried to wet my sticky, overly glossed lips. It didn’t help. The gloss tasted awful on my dry tongue. Wilson, bless him, waited while I collected myself.
“Kate asked me to take on the host duties today and show you the property. No big deal.” Even I didn’t believe that last part as my voice barely rose above a cracked whisper, and my attempt at a smile must have looked a frightful mess based on Wilson’s concerned expression.
“All right, people, let’s get this show on the road.” One of Kate’s assistants manhandled me and Wilson into place, while another minion readied our mics.
And thus began the slow-motion train wreck of epic proportions.
I couldn’t focus on Wilson or the house. Nothing I’d tried to memorize and all the information I knew from the listing had vanished. Hell, after the first half-dozen takes in the foyer, I wasn’t even sure I knew my name. The camera people had started to complain about losing the light, and Kate’s frown grew every time I stumbled over my words.
Between takes, I realized my hands were shaking. I wanted to quit. Wilson kept quiet, but his sympathetic looks only made things worse. The black void of the camera lens bored into me, amplifying every mistake. Recording it for all time.
This shoot was like a beauty pageant when you’ve tripped and fallen flat on your face in the evening gown competition. You did not recover.
“Let’s move on to the kitchen. We can come back.” Kate shouted, and en masse, we all shuffled into the oversized gourmet kitchen with its Italian Calacatta marble double island.
I squared my shoulders and closed my eyes, blocking out the people and commotion. A virtual wall of serenity. Everyone, even Wilson, needed to stay on the other side. Breathing slowly, I composed exactly what I wanted to say. It was time to do this and do it right. I’d rely on every trick I’d learned competing in pageants and own this take.
“Action.”
With a delicate hand on his lower back, I guided Wilson forward into the heart of the room. The kitchen was massive—ridiculously large. Pretty much any home I’d sold in the last two decades would fit in this space. I let him absorb the grandeur of the room and called on my old pageant skills to find my spokesmodel voice.
“The Aerie House boasts a true dream kitchen. From the hand-scraped Brazilian cherry floors to the coordinating coffered ceiling details.” I waved my hand in a move that would have made Vanna White jealous. “The room is an elegant space for entertaining. But it’s also a fully equipped kitchen with everything the home cook or professional could want.” I’d hit my stride. Hell yeah. Unafraid, I looked into the soulless black eye of the camera lens.
I strolled toward the huge stainless-steel range and vent hood that dominated the far wall of the room, bringing Wilson along with a deft maneuver. My hand trailed elegantly over the red knobs of the behemoth appliance in a soft caress.
“The centerpiece of this kitchen is undoubtedly this commercial Barbarian range with custom-designed...” I stopped.
